


Days in Summer

by thegirlwiththemouseyhair



Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-30
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-20 23:45:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/591033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlwiththemouseyhair/pseuds/thegirlwiththemouseyhair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>1) This story has not been beta read, but feedback is absolutely cherished. 2) This piece is meant to begin right after the end of the movie. 3) The title comes from a line in The Picture of Dorian Gray, and the piece is peppered with Oscar Wilde quotes which should be easily identifiable. If you want the complete spotter's guide, just ask. 4) Finally, I began posting this story on Livejournal under the name wild_huntress before opening my account here.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 1) This story has not been beta read, but feedback is absolutely cherished. 2) This piece is meant to begin right after the end of the movie. 3) The title comes from a line in The Picture of Dorian Gray, and the piece is peppered with Oscar Wilde quotes which should be easily identifiable. If you want the complete spotter's guide, just ask. 4) Finally, I began posting this story on Livejournal under the name wild_huntress before opening my account here.

Title: Days in Summer  
Pairing: Curt/Arthur  
Disclaimer: Velvet Goldmine and all associated characters and trademarks are the intellectual property of Todd Haynes and Miramax. This is a work of non-commercial fan fiction commentary on the film; no ownership is being claimed and no profit is being made.  
  


_Prologue  
November, 1984_

Arthur hunches over his desk, his legs tucked under him and his pen in his hand. His notes on Brian Slade are a ragged mess in the corner. It doesn’t matter; he’s beyond needing them at this point. He already knows the story he intends to tell - that true, maddening story of promise, and of how that promise had soured, how Thomas Brian Stoningham Slade had ended by compounding one deceit upon another.

He also knows that this expose could well be the end of his career, such as it is. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained - and he’s done far too much work and been through far too much frustration to turn back now.

He leans back somewhat, rereads a passage. That old, familiar flush starts to warm his face, despite the fact that he is alone in his empty apartment. He has let himself get too sentimental and reveal too much of himself. _A real artist creates beautiful things and puts nothing of his own life into them_ , he thinks. He crosses that bit out. Too late, though: the self-doubt has already begun to creep back in, making him fidget and turn away to seek some distraction.

For a moment Arthur thinks of Curt. He is tempted to take the pin from the place of honour he has cleared for it on his desk, just to hold it, but that would be too pathetic even by his standards. Besides, he has already done enough of that in the last few days, clutching it almost hard enough to stab his fingers, and daydreaming. He wonders whether - just maybe - he might see Curt again. _He had said see you around..._

Then Arthur pushes the thought away, as he has done a dozen times. This is not the distraction he needs right now. Besides, it’s pointless to wonder about what is so obviously in the past. He has no business wasting any more of his life worrying about what might have been, had his ridiculous hopes actually amounted to anything, or second guessing what he might do to win favour from others. That’s something else Arthur did enough of as an adolescent. Worse, he has hardly stopped doing it in the years since the Flaming Creatures broke up and he had been forced to sell his record collection (sell his soul, really) to return to school and to some semblance of a normal life.

That’s part of why this Slade piece has been so fucking painful. It’s not easy suddenly to find yourself staring in the face all the things you’ve tried for years to deny yourself. Still, Arthur likes to think that some good may come of all this. He’s damned well going to try to put the two disparate halves of his life together in some way or other. Writing this piece just because it means something to him, and just because he wants to - needs it, really, like catharsis - is the first step. And maybe, in writing about something he loved, he might even end up finding something meaningful to do with himself.

 _More ridiculous hopes_ , Arthur tells himself. The air in the apartment is stifling, despite the cold fall evening outside. He realizes that his throat is dry enough to hurt. He stands up, wincing at the pins-and-needles sensation in his legs, and steps into the kitchen. There’s precious little to eat or drink, so he pours himself some water from the tap before reluctantly returning to his desk. It’s been a long night.

It’s going to be even longer before this article will be finished - and then he’ll only just get to start the real work of finding some respectable paper or magazine to publish him. But he can’t deal with that part tonight.

He puts his hand to his mouth, absently biting at the nail on his little finger and wondering what might come of this article. Nothing, most likely - how many people would really care or even read what he wrote? Or it might just attract Stone’s attention and go horribly wrong for Arthur, he supposed, thinking of the glares that had been so unmistakable even at a distance of twenty feet and over the heads of dozens of other journalists and technicians and fans.

Still, it would be a shame to let one of his rare moments of courage go to waste. With an effort he returns his hands and his concentration to the notebook before him.

_Part 1  
December, 1984_

It’s funny how things work, sometimes. For the first time in his life, with his article on Brian Slade making real waves in the right circles, Arthur may have achieved something noteworthy. It had taken him a while to find a magazine that would publish him, long enough that he had been close to giving up altogether, yet now he almost can’t believe the reaction he has received. A number of other papers and magazines have actually picked up his story, enough to force one or two public denials out of Tommy Stone himself. Arthur has even had people recognize him from the headshot that accompanied his article, and stop to talk to him at other concerts that he was covering. That had been shocking, for someone like him, but nice too, in a way.

And what’s really funny is that he might just get the opportunity to push his way back into Curt Wild’s life, at least for an hour or two. It sounds surprisingly easy, with the editor of the magazine he published with clamouring for a follow up - even suggesting that a full book on the subject might be feasible. _But you need more material, he has been told. I know you’re doing this on top of a day job, but you could call around some more, expand this. Did you try that Curt Wild? Lives here in New York..._

So, as an added, terrifying bonus, Arthur once again has the pretext of an interview, the perfect excuse to try calling Curt - and it’s not just an excuse. He really does need more material. Still, he hesitates before making the call. It’s a little pathetic how he has never, ever moved on from a one night stand ten years ago, how even the thought of approaching a great man like Curt still makes his palms sweat and his heart race. He can just imagine how inept he’ll sound, again, like he did six weeks ago. The thought is almost enough to persuade him not to bother. Then, too, there’s the fact that his piece has put Brian Slade back on the front page. That might not go over well with Curt, for any number of reasons. Arthur fully expects more of the hostility he had seen when he first tried to contact Curt weeks ago, rather than the tenderness and candour of their last off the record encounter after the Stone show. He hopes for the latter, of course - well, really he hopes for more than that, but knows better on both counts. He’s not even sure if Curt remembered him. He thinks so; why insist on giving him the pin if he hadn’t recognized him from years ago? But Arthur knows that he can’t have been very memorable then, just as he isn’t now. He has, in fact, never been memorable or meaningful to anyone, in any way.

And yet, he does have Oscar Wilde’s pin clipped to the front of his jacket. He sighs. Maybe a definite answer - even a biting rejection - would be better than more doubt. He already feels as if he has been thinking of calling Curt, trying to call Curt, working up the nerve to call, for days. It’s pathetic. He has told himself a thousand times that he will grow some fucking backbone, yet somehow, it never really works - certainly not where Curt Wild is concerned.

 _Not this time_ , Arthur thinks. He makes the call, introduces himself and waits for Curt’s reply. When Curt agrees almost immediately, Arthur has to bite his lip to keep from sighing or, perhaps, laughing out loud in relief.

* * *  
Their appointment is quite late in the evening. Arthur is, after all, writing this piece on top of a real job which takes up enough of his time already. Just the same, he stops by his apartment after work but before his meeting with Curt, showers, and ends up changing his shirt not just once but twice. Ridiculous, he knows. His stomach has been growing colder all evening, even though he has thought through exactly what he wants to say. His mouth is dry, too. He pours himself some water, nearly spilling it when he notices the stove clock and realizes that he is actually running late by now.

Arthur takes one last look in the bathroom mirror on his way out. As he does so, he tries to convince himself once more that he looks calmer than he is. Then he walks out the door, grateful that the bar where they are to meet is so close to his place.

* * *  
Of course it would start to snow just now. When Arthur enters the bar, he is shivering slightly, and his hair and the collar of his shirt beneath his jacket are damp with melting snow. _So much for looking presentable._

At first he thinks he has made it on time, at least, in spite of his nervousness and his counterproductive, self-sabotaging delaying. Then he turns to the quietest, emptiest corner of the bar and sees that Curt Wild is waiting for him. The sight of him makes Arthur’s stomach twist, once again. Arthur reminds himself that he is a professional and that he knows what he’s doing (more or less); moreover, Curt agreed to this interview readily enough. He forces a smile and goes to join the older man.

“I’m sorry I’m a bit late,” Arthur says, sitting down.

“It’s fine,” Curt says. “Arthur, right?”

Arthur nods. He sits up just a little straighter than he normally would, warmed by the mere fact of hearing his name used.

“Arthur Stuart. And I just want to say, thanks for agreeing to do this.”

Curt gives him a half smile.

“I almost didn’t,” he says.

And then Arthur remembers that he is not in control at all; he can, in fact, hardly even think what to say in response to that particular comment. He bites his tongue, tries to be professional. He has, after all, achieved the closest thing to success that he has seen in his life. But of course, he cannot pretend that that is the _only_ reason why he’s here.

“What changed your mind?” he asks, looking at Curt across the table.

Curt lights a cigarette, shrugging. Arthur notices that Curt looks just a little heavier, healthier. It’s more appropriate to his build and it suits him. _Off the drugs_ , Arthur thinks, with some satisfaction, before reminding himself just how uncalled for that is.

“A couple things,” Curt says, bringing Arthur’s mind back to the question he had asked. “At first I just figured some tabloid reporter had made the connection - the name you write under meant nothing to me. Then when other people started picking up on the story, I took a look at it, and recognized your headshot. You looked good, by the way.”

Arthur feels his face flushing. He had been so keen to be discreet, and had tried so hard to protest when his editor had insisted on that damn picture. _And now Curt Wild wants to talk to me - and, what, pick me up? - thanks to it..._

“Thanks, I guess” Arthur says.

Curt shakes his head. “There’s more to it, though.” He looks down at the cigarette in his hand. “I just want you to know why I’m here.”

He laughs, a harsh laugh that leaves Arthur confused and wondering what’s coming next.

“For a while there I really thought I had misjudged you last time, and that you were just some son of a bitch trying to make a buck by dragging up other people’s problems- until one of the guys in my band said I should actually read your article, and I liked what you had to say.”

Silence falls. Curt inhales again; Arthur can’t quite decide whether to smile or to try to maintain that thin veneer of disinterest. He racks his brain for something to say, rejecting  
another “why” or “thanks-I-guess”, and at length decides that the best course may be to let Curt continue for a while.

“I thought you were smart, and I thought you really - get it. I guess you wanted to raise some hell, writing that, which is great-”

“I - wanted to make people think,” Arthur says. Immediately he finds himself wishing he’d kept his mouth shut. _I must sound so pretentious..._

But Curt just smiles at him.

“Yeah. Close enough. I guess you remember that time in your own life...”

That touches a nerve. Arthur’s heart begins to beat faster, irregularly. So much for professional disinterest, he thinks. He wishes he had a drink to soothe his dry throat, but doesn’t dare turn away from Curt to order, and wishes he could ask the question that has been on his mind for so long, now, but finds that the words just won’t come. Instead, he breathes in as deeply as he dares, seeking refuge in the purported point of this meeting.

“I really didn’t want to damage Brian or his career,” he begins, watching Curt’s face closely. “In case you’re still... close. But -”

Curt snorts.

“I understand,” he says. “And believe me, I don’t give a fuck about Brian or his career at this point.”

His face hardens; Arthur is not sure if it is from pain or envy, or perhaps both.

“If anything, your brilliant article has just made him more famous than ever, for now,” Curt adds. He takes another drag of his cigarette, holding it just a little too tightly between his fingers. _Envy_ , Arthur thinks. He could apologize, but he’s already been awkward enough tonight. Instead, he offers what he hopes is a reassuring smile.

“Well, the only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about, and all that,” he says.

An answering smile - a real, radiant one - lights up Curt’s face. He is absolutely breathtaking in that moment. Arthur wonders how he had ever looked away from him, and keeps staring at Curt’s face even after the smile fades. It takes Arthur some time to realize that they’re sitting in silence once again, and that he should say something to  
bring the conversation back to his failed or failing interview.

“If you could tell me a bit about how things got to this point,” he begins. Curt holds up a hand, cutting him off.

“I’m not done yet,” he says. “I just want to say that I did remember you. I recognized you right away when we met last month or whenever it was.”

A thrill runs through Arthur. His stomach is suddenly light - a floaty, almost dizzy feeling - even as some inane part of his mind thinks, _Not_ right _away_. He ignores the thought, and stares at Curt’s face with wide eyes. “You -”

“Death of Glitter concert, ten years back. I recognized you but I probably gave you -” he hesitates - “pretty shitty closure last time we talked.” He laughs. “You were really fucking sweet when you were young.”

The word is like dischord in a song, jarring and distasteful. Sweet is definitely not what he has waited so long to hear - just when he had been beginning to feel _almost_ desirable, _almost_ okay.

“I was a lot younger back then,” Arthur says. His face flushes even deeper. Stupid thing to say; that would be obvious... “Anyway, do you mind answering my questions?”

“No. Fine.” Curt’s voice is so rough, and his eyes are so intense, that Arthur can feel the hairs at the back of his neck beginning to prickle. The small, empty space between them is almost palpable. Arthur has to look away, now. For the umpteenth time, he wishes he had could think of something smarter and more interesting to say. He can’t tell if Curt is just trying to give him that closure he mentioned or if there is more to it than that; even if there is, he is, as always, too self-sabotaging and afraid to act on that. If only he had the courage to grab and snog this man right here, right now, or at least say _something_ that would win him over...

“I just hope I didn’t embarrass you or anything,” Curt adds. Arthur glances up at him again. He is frowning, tilting his head slightly to look at his cigarette. For the first time Arthur realizes that this is awkward for him, too.

That’s all he needs. He grins, suddenly reckless, as if a weight has lifted from him.

“Not a bit,” he says. “Actually, I’m really glad that of the hundreds - or thousands - of people you must have slept with, you remember me.”

Curt grins back at him.

“Tens of thousands,” he says, reaching one hand across the table so that his fingers  
just brush Arthur’s wrist. Arthur shivers and edges closer. The bluff is so ridiculous that he almost wants to laugh.

“All right, then, tens of thousands.”

Arthur knows that he can forget about getting _any_ work done tonight. His heart is racing again, and the blood is beginning to flow to his groin. Once again, he is every bit the groupie teenager aching to touch the dream of his youth. He decides he doesn’t care, and reaches for Curt’s hand, tentatively.

Within a moment they have come together in a deep kiss, knocking the small table between them out of the way such that it scrapes several inches across the floor. The sound is as striking as the taste of cigarette smoke on Arthur’s mouth and the feel of Curt’s tongue running over his lips, demanding entry, penetrating him. Then Curt breaks the kiss as suddenly as it had begun. Arthur sighs. Reluctantly, he straightens the table and looks around. They’re as alone as can be expected, but just the same...

“I guess we can’t do that here,” he says.

“I guess the question is, your place or mine?” Curt counters. “Although I think you said when you called that this place was close to you.”

Arthur had. He thinks of his shabby apartment and single bed, and once again finds himself at a loss for words.

“My place isn’t anything much,” he begins, then reminds himself that Curt Wild wants to come home with him. _I should stop sabotaging myself_ , he thinks. “But I’m sure we could make do.”

* * *

Arthur wakes up to the smell of cigarette smoke filling his bedroom. A smile spreads across his face, slowly. For a moment he closes his eyes again and thinks of the previous night - the look on Curt’s face, the ragged need in his voice, the way he had whispered nonsense in Arthur’s ear while fucking him. _You’re so hot. You’re so beautiful._ Every nerve in Arthur’s body had been awake, reminding him of how dull the rest of his life was, how he had hardly ever been properly _alive_ before, except for a few hours on a rooftop a long time ago.

He lies there for as long as he can before finally opening his eyes and sitting up. For a moment he does not even want to look at Curt for fear of the awkwardness that he knows will ensue, and of the stark certainty that Curt will just walk out of his life again. He  
pushes the thought away.

“Hey,” he says, “I hope I didn’t wake you or anything.”

Curt turns to look at him.

“Nah, it’s fine - although you were right.”

Arthur hopes he is not imagining the warmth in the other man’s voice. “Right about what?”

“You really don’t have a lot of space here. Or a lot of records or anything.”

“I, um, sold most of them,” Arthur replies before he can think. “I - needed the money.”

He winces, imagining how this will sound. Still, he supposes that any interaction is better than none, and is relieved to see Curt shrug his shoulders.

“Sad,” he says. “Anyway, I can take you home to my place next time. If you want there to be a next time.” He grins wickedly. “I think you still need to finish that interview.”

The words are almost too much for Arthur’s tired mind to comprehend. He stifles a laugh.

“Yes, definitely - to both of those.”

Their eyes meet. Curt takes a step closer, cupping Arthur’s face in his hand and pulling him down to kiss him. For a moment Arthur feels almost as real and as alive as he had the night before; when they break apart, he can’t keep himself from smiling like an idiot.

“What’s your phone number?” Curt asks. “Here, not at your work. I’ll call you.”

“Great.” Arthur gives him the number, then pulls Curt even closer.

“I’ve still got a bit of time now, though.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a honeymoon-type interlude that follows soon after the first part. Also, the last couple lines of this part are an Oscar Wilde paraphrase, in keeping with the theme of Oscar Wilde quotes. Finally, this has not been beta read, but any feedback/concrit/appreciation always absolutely makes my day.

_Part Two  
December, 1984_

Maybe Curt has been alone for too long. Too alone, too busy surviving, and too mind-numbingly _bored_ lately - yet he had hardly even realized that until Arthur showed up. The last few days have been so good, and so hot. It’s been almost like a return to his so-called prime.

_Almost_ , only without being stoned all the time, and with a partner who might just be worth keeping around for a while.

Not that Curt is about to fall in love with Arthur or anything, certainly not in ten days. Hell, they’ve hardly even interacted aside from having sex. It’s amazing how many hours they’ve spent just fucking and sucking and _touching_ each other, in one way or another. If Curt has been surprisingly alone - even celibate, though he hates to admit it - then he can only imagine how Arthur must have been living; he is absolutely insatiable.

It’s Curt who has actually contemplated trying to do more, as if they were dating, or something. Just last night he had really planned to surprise Arthur and take him out somewhere nice for dinner - just for the hell of it. Arthur had nixed those plans, however. Apparently Arthur is the kind of decent, diligent sucker who would stay late in an office on a Friday night if someone pressured him to. When he finally showed up at Curt’s apartment, he had apologized and then all but jumped Curt at the door, derailing any sort of dinner plans other than post-sex pizza. The experience was worth it, though.

But this morning, Curt thinks he really will surprise Arthur. He might as well take advantage of the fact that he managed to wake up before Arthur, and, after getting washed and dressed, returns to his bedroom to stretch out beside him. He’s quiet for a moment as he watches the younger man sleep. Then he realizes that this is far too sentimental and too slow, so he leans in closer to put his hand on Arthur’s arm as he kisses him awake.

“Hey,” he says.

Arthur opens his eyes and stifles a yawn. His face creases into a small frown as he looks Curt over.

“Hey - going somewhere?”

“I was thinking I’d buy you breakfast,” Curt says. “If you don’t have anything else to do this morning.”

“No, that’s great.” Arthur smiles. “I just didn’t bring a change of clothes..”

“Borrow something from me,” Curt says.

They get up together. Curt makes his way into the spare room he uses as a studio, picks up his guitar and plays through part of a song, half-heartedly, while he waits. When Arthur steps out of the bathroom, he is wearing his own work pants and a faded gray t-shirt of Curt’s - probably the most Arthur-appropriate thing he owns. Curt snickers a little when he sees that.

“What?” Arthur asks.

Curt is already on his feet and flinging a jacket over his shoulders. “Nothing.”

Arthur follows Curt out of the room. “Where are we even going?”

“Somewhere nice and close. Come on.”

* * *

They walk to a place Curt knows near his apartment. Several times Curt finds himself looking over at Arthur and grinning. This is actually one of the first times this week that they’ve been together without being in some sort of physical contact. He is aware that Arthur is watching him, confused, but neither breaks the silence until they reach their destination.

“Two,” Curt says to the host. They sit down together, Arthur taking his time to look around. Curt hopes he’s impressed. It’s a nice place, clean, with hardwood floors, good food and drinks, and no pathetic Christmas music playing, even though it’s that time of year. 

“Thanks,” Arthur says.

“It’s nothing,” Curt replies, then adds, “I actually need to eat something, too, you know. I haven’t had much time to do that this week thanks to you.”

Arthur smiles shyly. “Sorry,” he says, probably more from habit than anything. “I - didn’t hear you complaining ‘til now, though.”

“No. You’re right.”

A waitress passes by to take their orders. When she leaves, they find themselves sitting in silence once again.

“Tell me something about yourself,” Curt says, quickly.

Arthur laughs, as if he is startled by the question.

“About me? There’s -” he hesitates - “really not much to say. Nothing interesting, anyway.” He shrugs. “I’m not like you.”

Curt can feel his mouth twist into a grimace.

“My life’s been nothing but NA meetings and trying to scrape together enough new music for an album,” he says. “That, and a few gigs - nothing interesting at all. I’m sick of myself.”

He lights a cigarette, wondering what all this must sound like to Arthur. His dark eyes have that same intense look in them that Curt remembers, or likes to think he remembers, from ten years ago. It makes him itch to know what Arthur’s thinking.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says again, after a moment.

Curt shakes his head. “It’s fine. It’s a lot better than it could be - I just don’t want to talk about me right now. I’d rather hear about you.”

Another shy smile starts to spread itself across Arthur’s face.

“I’m not used to that,” he says.

“What, talking about yourself?” Curt grins. “Great. You can try something new. Besides, you look hot like that.”

“Like what?”

_Uncomfortable, confused but happy_ , Curt thinks, but doesn’t say it. He shrugs and says “I don’t know. Like you do right now.”

Again Arthur hesitates.

“I don’t know what to say. I go to work every day. I’ve - been doing some other writing on the side, as you know. I’m having an incredible time with you...”

“Good,” Curt says, taking a drag on his cigarette. “What else? What are your friends like, family - if you have any?”

Arthur tenses then, just a little; his face becomes more guarded, and Curt realizes just what a misstep that was. _Sure, who the hell would have a decent family?_ He exhales, hoping for some answer.

“I’m still pretty new here,” Arthur says, after a moment. “And there aren’t that many people I keep in touch with.”

_So he’s as alone as I am_ , Curt thinks. He says, “I know what that’s like.”

The waitress returns with coffee, giving them the perfect excuse to be quiet for a while without seeming awkward. Curt crushes the stub of his cigarette into the ashtray and wonders what else to say. He wishes he could remember more of Arthur ten years before. Of course, this is yet another thing that he won’t admit, but it had taken him almost their whole conversation after Brian’s absurd Tommy Stone show to recognize Arthur at all. And yet, afterwards, he had gone home to find himself thinking about Arthur on and off, more than he had expected or cared to. Under his skin, was the word for it. Then he had seen Arthur’s article, and that combined with Arthur’s pen name had messed with his head and his memory even more. Still, he has, at least, sorted things out well enough to have placed Arthur as that sweet kid from after the Death of Glitter concert.

“You used to travel with the Flaming Creatures, didn’t you?” Curt asks, hoping that he has figured right.

Arthur nods. Curt studies his face, but still can’t read him.

“Didn’t keep in touch with them, either?”

“No,” Arthur says. He looks down at the table and folds a corner of the paper napkin absently. “They broke up after a couple years and, um, forgot me. Or we forgot each other.”

_Well, this is going from bad to worse_ , Curt thinks. And then he realizes that Arthur could just as easily be talking about him instead. It’s Curt’s turn to look down, suddenly guilty. He stares at the ashtray for a moment. He could hardly have had any kind of _relationship_ with Arthur ten years ago - the idea is ridiculous - but just the same...

“Not that I’m complaining or anything,” Arthur adds. “That had to happen eventually. I’m really lucky to have met them when I did; it was great while it lasted - probably the best time of my life.”

“It’s still pretty shitty,” Curt says. _And we could still be talking about me._ “So I’m guessing you either jumped at the chance to write about all this, or you were dragged kicking and screaming...”

Arthur just shrugs, but Curt can see the smile pulling at his mouth again. “Something in the middle, I guess.”

“Just, not the kicking and screaming type?”

“No.” Now the smile has broadened enough to light up Arthur’s whole face. Curt is surprised by how relieved he is to see that. “But I did get more - interested than I’d been in a long time. I mean, in work. I used to want to write about music a long time ago. It just never worked out.”

“Well, how old are you?”

“I’m twenty seven,” Arthur says, taking a sip of his coffee.

Curt would have guessed as much. He himself could have been dead at that age, and knows how lucky he is that things didn’t turn out that way. But Arthur’s life is nothing like that. He looks away to light another cigarette.

“You’ve got lots of time, if you still want,” he says, then laughs.

“What is it?” Arthur asks. When Curt looks up, Arthur’s eyes are on him, full and intense. Curt can’t even begin to think why that look turns him on as much as it does. He shifts in his seat and takes refuge in teasing.

“Usually I fucking hate music journalists and critics and all that,” he says.

Arthur raises one eyebrow - _still smiling_ , Curt thinks; _not really hurt or anything. Good._

“So why the exception for me?

For a moment Curt thinks about how he might describe the last ten days. He has enjoyed - no, needed - the companionship more than he would have thought, and has been having and enjoying sex far more now than he had been for several months. Of course he’s all too aware that even the best fling or the most frequent, passionate sex is not half as satisfying as the warm oblivion of getting high, but Curt is not about to go back to that. He pushes the thought away.

It’s been easier to live properly with Arthur in his life, these last few days. Arthur might be just the distraction Curt has needed. He’s decent, and has what to say, and seems like he might get Curt, as much as any decent, normal person could. He’s also great in bed - surprisingly passionate. Surprisingly kinky, too. 

Curt takes a drag of his cigarette, wondering how to answer Arthur’s question.

“I can make an exception for you because you’re different,” he says. “And hot - and sweet.”

He throws that last bit in because he knows no better way to tease Arthur. As always, Arthur takes the bait. His cheeks flush.

“Thanks,” he murmurs. “I think. And, um, this is probably a bad time to say this but we do need to do that interview at some point.”

Curt sighs an exaggerated sigh. “Hey, I haven’t heard you complain ‘til now. We’ve had better things to do”

“I know,” Arthur says. He is silent afterwards, but Curt thinks he can hear the satisfaction in Arthur’s voice, and see it in the more fluid movement of his shoulders as he leans back in his seat – just slightly different, not as shy or as awkward as he had been a second before. The effect is almost enough to start making Curt hard. He wishes he could lean in close enough to cover Arthur’s mouth in a crushing kiss, right now, in full view of everyone, and wonders if he can instead settle for touching Arthur’s hand. He reaches across the table to stroke his wrist.

“You know I only agreed to that because I wanted to see _you_ ,” Curt says.

Arthur’s reaction is a wonderful thing to see; he coughs a little and nearly drops his coffee cup, but when he collects himself enough to meet Curt’s gaze, the light in his eyes is brighter than ever.

“Are you okay?” Curt asks, laughing.

There’s no question that Arthur is coming home with Curt once again. When they finish their breakfast (and Curt pays, despite Arthur’s attempt to protest), he hardly even has to suggest going right back to his place.

* * *

They spend the early part of the afternoon in bed, fucking hard, then just lying together, spent. Even though it’s much too early to even think about falling back asleep, Curt finds himself waking up an hour later. His limbs are entwined with Arthur’s.

“I hope I’m not taking up too much of your time,” Arthur murmurs. Curt forces a smile. Privately, the thought of being alone again makes him want to panic.

“It’s fine,” he says, as carelessly as he can. “We can watch T.V. or something.”

Arthur sits up, laughing one of those quiet half-laughs.

“What?” Curt asks.

Arthur shakes his head. “It’s just... someone like me, with someone like you...”

There’s a hint of sadness, or awe, maybe - something annoying - in his voice that Curt just can’t stand.

“What, up-and-coming music journalist with has-been rock star?” he asks. It works, too; he has to bite his tongue to keep from laughing at Arthur’s reaction.

“That’s not what I meant,” Arthur says, very quickly. “Because I’m not - and you’re definitely not. You said you were working on some new material, and I’m sure it’s fantastic. Not that you need my input.”

His eyes are so adoring when he says that, and his lips look so soft, that Curt is torn between wanting to take him by the hand into the studio to show off for him or just wanting to fuck him again, gentle and face to face.

The latter idea wins.

* * *

Eventually, though, Arthur does have to leave. He’s hesitant about it, raising his head off the pillow, and mumbling something about having work to finish at home.

“Do you have to?” Curt asks, with more feeling than he intended. He masks it with a grin and reaches for a cigarette. “Do I have to tie you to the bed again to keep you here?”

Arthur closes his eyes briefly at the memory, satisfied. That had been hot. Then again, so is everything they’ve been doing together.

“Not today,” Arthur says, once the moment has passed. He gets up to collect his clothes. “I can come around tomorrow if you want.”

“Great,” Curt says, taking a deep drag.

Arthur finishes zipping up his fly before turning back to face Curt again.

“Such a cliche,” he says, taking the cigarette in his own fingers and leaning in to kiss Curt. Curt smiles against Arthur’s mouth before breaking the kiss, putting a hand on Arthur’s back. He can feel Arthur buckle from the strain of the awkward position, nearly collapsing back onto the bed.

“Careful,” Curt teases. “Don’t fucking burn my place down.”

Arthur grins, straightens up. “I won’t. I’ll see you.”

* * *

And even when Arthur leaves, Curt finds himself thinking about him still - missing the warmth of Arthur’s body beside him in bed or on the sofa, and even rehashing things they said to each other in his head. Now is not ten years ago. Now, Curt is not about to forget Arthur when they’re apart for a few hours.

It’s not that he’s falling for Arthur, exactly. It’s just that what they’ve shared over the last ten days has been so damn good. Better than that, actually. Beautiful. Exquisite - like what he had with Brian, at first, or like that perfect glow of a high or a cigarette when he really needs it.

And, like all of those, it’s left him feeling unsatisfied.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, I had originally posted this piece under the title Give and Take a few weeks ago on Livejournal, back when I had only a vague idea that I could fit it into this longer narrative. Second, in keeping with the liberal use of Oscar Wilde quotes in this movie, the quote about regretting the loss of one’s worst habits is a paraphrase from The Picture of Dorian Gray.

_Part Three  
February, 1985_

Curt knows that just a few years ago, he would have destroyed someone like Arthur in about two months. Arthur Stuart is that rare creature - a really decent person - and, up until very recently, it would have been impossible for Curt to keep someone like that in his life. The drugs, arrests, hospitalizations, the violence of Curt’s own outbursts, would have ruined him or her in record time. Even now, Curt sometimes suspects that he’ll end up screwing Arthur over and then leaving him. He has _tried_ to get his act together; he is cleaner today than he’s been at any time in his adult life, but he knows himself too well to be sure if it’ll last.

He has, however, realized after one close call too many just how badly he needed to give up the life he had been living. He is thirty eight years old now, thirty seven the last time he went through rehab, and he has finally learned that no matter how pathetic turning forty sounds, the alternative is actually worse. In fact, it terrifies him.

“It’s basic fear of death,” he had said to Arthur once. “The kind of thing even a fucking insect would be smart enough to feel. I guess it finally kicked in, you know?”

That had been a little over a month into their relationship, a weekend, one of those quietly ecstatic times when Arthur did not have to work and so would hardly leave Curt’s apartment for the better part of three days. They were sitting together in the aftermath of sex when Curt had found his mind wandering. He had begun lapsing into self-pity, thinking of the lows that still threatened to overwhelm him enough to throw all that hard-earned wisdom right out and go right back to his old habits. The boredom alone had almost done the trick, at times.

“You regret the loss of even your worst habits,” he had gone on. “Maybe you regret those the most. They become such a part of you.”

Arthur had looked at him with that warm, worried stare - he can actually care about people other than himself - but said nothing.

“What?” Curt had asked, lighting a cigarette.

For a second Arthur had looked so nervous that Curt was tempted to offer him the cigarette instead, even though Arthur didn’t smoke. But within a moment Arthur had collected himself. When he replied, it was with that newfound conviction that always made Curt smile a little inside.

“It’s so important that you did stop, though,” he says. “You needed to.”

And that, of course, is part of why Curt has done the selfish thing and decided to hang onto Arthur. He has so needed something better - healthier, more flattering - to do with himself and his life; he needs reinforcement like that to keep him sane.

“Yeah?” he had asked, wondering where Arthur would go with this.

“Yeah - you’ve got so much more to say to the world. Really. You’d be missed so much...”

“Especially by you?”

Arthur had looked away then. They had never really verbalized their feelings, and so Curt had realized too late that forcing this out of Arthur was a pretty lousy, and a surprisingly manipulative, thing to do. Still he could not suppress the brief thought, _This isn’t like Brian;_ he _needs_ me _, I could walk away easier, be better off..._

“Yeah,” Arthur had said, at length, his voice strained. “Especially by me. You know that.”

Curt had kissed him then, as tenderly as he ever had. _Don’t fuck up,_ he had reminded himself. _Don’t fuck_ him _up._

* * *

Arthur is smart, except, of course, where Curt is concerned. Anyone who, at twenty seven, with a life to lead, still jumps at the chance to get involved with Curt Wild can’t be all that sensible. Curt is very aware of that fact. Still, Arthur is so different from most of the people he has had in his life. Curt hasn’t really thought about what happened to the groupie kids he used to sleep with back in the day - something which he knows can’t reflect too well on him - but he suspects that those times ended much worse for many people than they did for Arthur. Despite having few friends and no family to speak of (and they rarely spoke of those things), Arthur had more or less gotten his life together. He might even use his writing to challenge the music world as it was now, to do something worthwhile. Curt suspects that this is more the exception than the rule. Given what he has seen, he’s pretty sure that more kids from backgrounds like Arthur’s would have ended as complete fuck ups - overdoses in strangers’ beds or God knew what. Somehow, Arthur had had the sense to avoid all that and create a normal life. Maybe a little too normal, at too steep a cost; maybe he, too, had been pretty unhappy when they first reconnected, but honestly, who _wasn’t_ unhappy? Besides, there was unhappy, and then there was the way Curt had lived the last twenty or so years of his life.

Arthur’s problems, at least, could be fixed. That’s another beautiful thing about being with him. It’s like breaking a dam. Curt would never admit it, but sometimes, he actually finds himself getting tired out by his new lover, in the best ways possible - Curt Wild, of all people. He has to smile whenever he realizes that. Maybe he’s just over the hill, or maybe it really is the quiet ones you have to watch out for. Either way, despite Curt’s fears, their relationship actually isn’t all take, no give on his part.

Instead, at least in these first few weeks, Curt has been astounded at the changes in Arthur. A few weeks of meeting up for sex every day, sometimes twice in a day, taking meals together and spending time together like a real couple, and Arthur is finally throwing away repression and timidity. He stands taller (and his height is very impressive); he smiles more readily and more broadly; there’s less tension in his muscles. He takes more risks, too. For one thing, he’s gotten much more familiar in his conversations with Curt, which is to be expected - less starstruck, more confident in speaking his mind, almost forceful at times.

Curt can see that courage carrying over into other parts of Arthur’s life, as well. Once, on an evening when Curt had surprised Arthur in his apartment, their rather rough play up against the bedroom wall had been interrupted by the phone ringing. Arthur had answered it. It had been his editor at the _Herald_ and though Arthur had to take the call, he had flashed Curt a sly smile and jerked him off while carrying on a normal enough business conversation. Though Curt had never had much self-control, he was as quiet then as he had ever been during sex.

They had laughed about it afterwards, but Curt was happier than he could say to see Arthur actually enjoying his life and his sexuality for a change. At least Curt knows he isn’t being completely selfish.

* * *

It’s another Monday morning, two months in, and Curt wakes up alone. He sits bolt upright, hoping that Arthur won’t have left for work yet. He hasn’t, happily; Curt can hear the sound of the shower running in the bathroom. He pulls on a pair of jeans and lights a cigarette. When Arthur steps out of the shower, Curt has coffee waiting for him. They exchange a smile.

“Thanks,” Arthur says. Then, when he has finished his drink, “I’ll see you - tonight? Tomorrow?”

“Tonight,” Curt says. He only notices the dark circles under Arthur’s eyes a moment later. “If you’re not too tired from burning the candle at both ends...”

Arthur laughs.

“I’m burning the candle at every end,” he says, “but I’ll be happy to see you tonight.”

“Good.”

But Curt knows that Arthur does, and should, have other commitments in his life, too, so he grins and adds, “You can work on your book here, you know. I promise I won’t spend the whole night fucking you.”

Arthur laughs again and leans in to kiss Curt.

“I wouldn’t mind - but I do have to go now. I’ll see you.”

Curt sighs as he locks the door after Arthur. He lights another cigarette, wondering how the apartment where he’s lived well enough for the last few years can seem so empty now. 

He thinks, _Maybe it’s too late already. Maybe I can’t walk away so easily, either._ But he doesn’t care half as much as he thought he would.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part is also peppered with Oscar Wilde quotes; once again, if you want the complete spotter's guide, just ask.

_Part Four  
April, 1985_

Arthur has never meant anything to anyone in his life, but sometimes, he really thinks that’s changing. Curt treats him like the centre of the world when they’re together. Maybe that’s just the way Curt is; he had been much the same when Arthur was nothing more than an anonymous groupie on a rooftop ten years ago - but Arthur’s pretty sure that it’s more than that, now. For one thing, he and Curt have been spending so much time together over the last four months that they might almost be living together, a situation which neither has had any complaints about. Curt has even hinted that _really_ living together is a viable option. Arthur is slowly progressing from being too stunned to respond to considering the idea seriously. 

Even more telling is the way Curt seems so obviously needy with Arthur, sometimes. It had taken Arthur maybe two or three weeks to go from seeing Curt as idol and hero to seeing him as a person, with a real life to which Arthur can actually contribute. Now, he is learning to accept being part of Curt’s life more easily than he would have believed possible. _I can believe anything,_ he thinks, _provided it’s quite incredible..._

Curt alternates between being surprisingly quiet when he’s at home, in private, and wanting someone to talk to about anything or everything. Arthur can do that. Maybe there’s just something about him that makes people trust him, which would explain why he’s done well enough at his job despite having precious little interest in most of the research he’s had to do. If he can use whatever knack he has to support Curt - the best thing in his life - then that is far more important. 

Arthur knows he might be really stupid for thinking that way. Even Curt has as good as said so, once or twice. After all, Curt’s biggest challenge, and the area in which he has most needed support and understanding, has been staying off drugs. Arthur’s proud of his discipline, usually. He tries not to imagine the ride he might get taken on if Curt were to lapse. So far, so good.

“It’s a little easier now,” Curt said once, articulating what Arthur had been hoping to hear. They had both had a bit much to drink that night - unusual, as Curt is generally good about _not_ fucking up his brain with any more chemicals, as he says, and Arthur paces himself to match Curt. Curt had opened up about some of the close calls he had faced at the height of his addictions. Arthur had said little - what could he say? - but had gone to sit beside him. Curt had cupped his face in his hands in that gentle way that always makes Arthur’s heart skip a beat.

“It’s never really _over_ ,” he had continued, “but it’s easier to forget, with you. I live - better now.”

“Good,” Arthur had said, prompting a bitter half-laugh from Curt.

“Yeah, well, the question is what the hell do you get out of it? If you were smart, I mean, smart for _yourself_ , you wouldn’t even be here.”

Arthur had been struck by the rare admission of vulnerability. In a way, of course he was right; there was bound to be more to Curt than the gentle, generous man who had finally succeeded in overcoming the horrors of addiction. There was bound to be so much risk. 

Arthur knows all that academically, but can’t bring himself to care. Never in his life has he felt as important or as _alive_ as he does with Curt. He tells himself that no matter how soon or how badly this may end, he’ll be better off for having had it.

“Well, I’m not going anywhere,” he had said, revealing more of himself than he would have had he been more sober. Then he had leaned in to kiss Curt.

They had spent a long time making out like teenagers on the couch before progressing to sex. 

* * *

Curt works more productively with Arthur around, too. He has said as much, and Arthur is learning not to doubt his sincerity. It’s funny how these things work out - this is almost exactly the position and the future Arthur had dreamed of years ago, when he was still young enough to hope for ridiculous things. Better, maybe. He would never have expected to be welcomed into Curt’s life so completely, yet here he is. Curt works better with an audience, if not a collaborator, and that’s something else Arthur can do. In fact, he has seldom been happier than when he is sitting beside Curt as he plays through a new song, or as he is when Curt finishes and turns to him with that expectant look, hoping for his feedback.

Well. Curt _usually_ works more productively with Arthur around. Sometimes, of course, they end up distracting each other. Once, a couple weeks ago, Arthur had come in late from work to find Curt sitting in his studio with his guitar and his ragged pile of notes for a new piece. Arthur had watched him for a while. The sound of his voice and the fierce look on his face had sent shivers down Arthur’s spine, overthrowing whatever self-control he had around Curt. He had gone over to Curt then and put his hands on his shoulders. Curt had paused, then stopped his playing, letting Arthur know that the distraction was a welcome one.

Arthur had taken the guitar from him, and ended by sucking him off, reveling in the feel of Curt’s calloused hands in his hair and the small moans Curt made deep in his throat. That had been memorable. 

When he had finished, Curt had taken a moment to collect himself. Then he was thrusting Arthur to the floor to return the favour, unbuttoning Arthur’s shirt and trousers so he could kiss his way down to Arthur’s upper thighs. In doing so he had run his fingers over that place below Arthur’s ribs that always made him laugh a little. The feel of Curt’s hand there, almost tickling him, and the shocking cold of the wood floor beneath his bare skin had actually forced Arthur to stifle a laugh and jerk away involuntarily. Naturally, his ankle had caught the table, sending sheets of lyrics and Curt’s water glass flying. 

“Shit,” he had said, turning his head to survey the damage. “I’m sorry.”

Curt had looked away for a moment before turning his attention back to Arthur.

“We’ll fix it after,” he had said, grinning, “and I’ll make you squirm now.”

Then he had taken Arthur in his mouth, teasing him with lips and tongue and teeth _(oh, God)_ , and Arthur was no longer thinking about anything else at all.

They had cleaned up the mess afterwards, Arthur mopping water off the floor with a towel while Curt stood by the fan, trying haphazardly to dry out his papers, half-dressed and half-laughing at each other. _Happy._

* * * 

Arthur is thriving on this relationship. It’s as if there’s finally some colour in his grey, meaningless life – colour and music and passion, for the first time in years. He’s certainly been having more and better sex than at any time in his life. Being with Curt is just so different from the fumbling, unsatisfying experiences he had grown used to. He’s actually sleeping better at night (even when he’s staying up late fucking or just wasting time watching TV with Curt), actually smiling for no reason at work. 

He’s having more fun than he has in years, too. Curt insists on taking him to concerts, his own (and he is every bit as extraordinary as he ever was) and, sometimes, new bands (a mixed bag, really). Arthur had forgotten how much he missed this. He’d hardly been to any shows in five or six years, and certainly hadn’t been backstage – until the last few months. Curt had even insisted on introducing Arthur to his band.

“What’s better,” he had asked, beforehand, “‘this is my boyfriend, Arthur’, or ‘this is my lover, Arthur’?”

The answer didn’t matter. What matters is that Arthur thinks he might actually achieve what he always wanted, and push his way into this world that he loves. He’s trying to, at any rate. Maybe, with Curt, and with his Brian Slade piece attracting the attention that it has, he really can make a meaningful niche for himself in life. 

Not that Curt has been particularly helpful from any practical or professional standpoint. They never even did that interview Curt had promised him, a fact that makes Arthur smile now, though it had left him scrambling for material at the time. But none of that matters, either. His second piece on Brian Slade had gone over well anyway, well enough for him to pursue the idea of a full book on the subject – even start thinking about doing this sort of work full time.

More importantly, he has found something even better in Curt. He doesn’t want or need any favours from him; what they have is more than enough. 

He had been a little worried that his writing and Curt’s discomfort with the past might come between them, but so far that hasn’t been the case. They’re surprisingly on the same page, as if they really understand each other.

“You raise hell in your way,” Curt had said to him once, “and I’ll keep doing it in mine.”

Arthur had laughed at that. 

“Not quite what I was thinking,” he had murmured, glancing up from his notes to Curt. 

“You know it is,” Curt had said. “Just don’t get yourself sued or assassinated or something.”

“That bad?”

Curt had shrugged. Arthur had watched his face closely, looking for any sign of pain or bitterness. But he had met Arthur’s gaze evenly enough.

“Worse,” he had answered, in that teasing tone. Arthur had breathed a sigh of relief to hear how relaxed he sounded now. How easily the words had come, compared to their first few months together. 

It’s the little things like that that seem almost too good to be true, even when they are. 

The small triumphs add up. Once, on an evening when Arthur had tried to surprise Curt at his apartment, he had instead found himself waiting for Curt to come in. When he did, he had been raging over some tabloid article he had found about himself - about both of them, really. Curt Wild was still famous enough to be worth writing about, at least in certain circles, and it seemed that one of those cheap papers Arthur would not be caught dead working for had gotten hold of some pictures of the two of them at a concert. They’re standing a bit too close together in the photos, a bit too suggestive; Arthur vaguely remembers that Curt had been about to take his hand to drag him out of the venue (the band was pretty terrible). 

Arthur had needed only to glance at the headline to see why Curt was so riled. He had frowned, bitten his lip. _New gay love for “bisexual” rocker Wild?_ Tacky, insensitive, of course, though Arthur supposed it could have been worse. Beside him, Curt was muttering about the pathetic fucking son of a bitch who had written it.

“Like it was just a fucking act,” he was snarling, “like _you’re_ just an act-”

“It’s all right,” Arthur had said, tensing a little as he always did in the face of conflict. Somehow, through sheer luck, he had not yet had to deal with one of Curt’s scenes; he could feel his heart rate increasing, but reached out to put a hand on Curt’s arm anyway.

“It’s really fucking not all right,” Curt had said.

Arthur had taken the paper from him, looked down at it again, and found himself trying not to smile, of all things.

“You think this is funny? You’re the one who’s not out to everyone, and actually has more to lose – ”

That was true enough. Arthur had tried to control himself, but could not keep the grin off his face, now that the absurdity of the situation had struck him. He _did_ have more to lose; he still started whenever someone recognized him from the headshot that accompanied his articles, and he was at least dimly aware that being seen with Curt could harm his claims to objectivity. _The author is biased in favour of Curt Wild, whom he was obviously shagging…_ But that’s a good problem to have - the sort of problem he had dreamed of having, without ever really expecting to.

“Actually, it’s fine,” he had said. “For one thing, some people could say the same about my writing.”

“That’s not true. You’re not a self-serving, prying piece of -”

Arthur had pulled him close and kissed him. 

“Let me finish. Some people might disagree with you about me, and anyway – d’ you really think I mind being seen with you?”

For a moment even Curt had smiled, just a little.

“I’m still calling the bastard tomorrow,” he had said. And he had; Arthur had come in on his lunch break the next day to overhear the last part of the confrontation. It wasn’t half as bad as he expected. Arthur chalked that up to whatever calming influence he seemed to have on Curt.

The little triumphs like that add up. Slowly, Arthur is learning to speak up to Curt when he has something alcoholic in his hand and can’t quite stop himself as he normally would, or learning to give Curt a meaningful look when his voice starts to rise as it does before an outburst. Of course Arthur’s gotten a few sharp responses for his trouble. But he has also gotten a lot of real gratitude, usually a day or so later when the heat of the moment has cooled. Then Curt may just raise the issue again with a sad or sheepish or grateful smile.

For the first time in his life, Arthur is beginning to think that he might really be valued by someone.

* * *  
Then there are the low days, when Arthur _can’t_ accept his good fortune, and finds himself just waiting for the other shoe to drop. Maybe if something seems too good to be true, it is. After all, Arthur has never really meant anything to anyone in his life – not to any of the members of the Flaming Creatures, who abandoned him when they broke up for all they had considered him such a good friend before, not to any of the men he had been involved with since, not even to his own family. He had certainly been nothing to Curt years ago. Would that really have changed? Curt is good to him, usually, yet there are times when Arthur can’t help wondering if he’s misreading his signals. Sometimes, Arthur will try to respond to something Curt says only to be met with such coldness that all he can do is walk away.

“What the hell would you know about it?” Curt will say, sometimes, throwing away Arthur’s sympathy when they try to talk about the past. “You were never addicted. You were never in that place…”

Or, when Curt is in one of those sad, self-deprecating moods, he may laugh harshly and say “I wouldn’t even want to be with me, you know. I’m lucky you’re still just this adoring fan who doesn’t know better.” 

He has only used that line a couple times, fairly early on, yet each incident had left Arthur with a sinking feeling in his stomach that took a long while to ease up. _What the hell is that supposed to mean?_ he had thought. As usual, though, he had said nothing.

It’s the fault lines like that that have kept Arthur from accepting Curt’s offer to shack up with him. For all their relationship has been exquisite and satisfying and so _hot_ , he knows he needs some exit strategy, just in case. Arthur has, after all, spent enough dark moments hoping that he’s not losing his heart and soul on someone who sees him as just an accessory to his own ego, a bit of decoration for his vanity. _An ornament for a summer’s day._

Then, too, he has seen Curt when he’s drinking and can’t seem to stop himself as he says he will, or when he’s panicking over running low on cigarettes, or reminiscing about getting high with a longing in his voice that’s painful to hear. Painful and frightening, too. Maybe nothing Arthur says at those times _really_ gets through to Curt. He’s not sure. Worse, he doesn’t know if all his pride in Curt’s sobriety – all his reliance on it – has been horribly misplaced and pathetically overly optimistic.

The basis for optimism is sheer terror. 

* * *

Curt is playing some gigs in the Midwest. Arthur has been going home alone at night for the first time in he doesn’t know how long. He would have given just about anything to be with Curt now, but couldn’t take that much time off work. Tonight, like nearly every night this week, he has found himself _almost_ getting off the train at the wrong stop, as if he were going to Curt’s apartment instead of his own. His own place is emptier, lonelier and more cramped than he remembers. He can barely remember what he used to do with himself in his spare time, before Curt came into his life, either. _Pathetic,_ he thinks.

He tries to write, then tries to watch TV, but can’t seem to concentrate on anything. He wishes Curt would call; they’ve hardly spoken this week – just a few minutes, _most_ every day – and when they did, their conversations were unsatisfactory and shallow. He hadn’t been too concerned up until now, though. Arthur knows that Curt hates talking on the phone and anyway, just hearing his voice had been enough to set Arthur at ease for a bit.

But it’s getting harder as the week goes on, as he’s growing more and more restless. He tries not to look at the phone. It’s seven thirty, anyway; Curt’s show (Cleveland, tonight) starts at eight. Too late to hear from him, at least for a few hours. 

Arthur fidgets in his chair. He glances at the phone again, then forces himself to turn away, reminding himself that he is being ridiculous. That’s the problem with love, though: it makes you too fucking needy. 

It’s going to be a long week. Arthur could kick himself for not taking the time off to be with Curt. Like this, he can’t stop wondering if Curt is drinking too much, or using again, or inviting some attractive young fan to slip away after the show, up to the rooftop, and –

With an effort, he pushes that thought away. It’s too nauseating for him to imagine; this is his narrative, no one else’s, or so he would like to think. He doesn’t really know, though. Maybe he _could_ be replaced that easily. 

The hours crawl by. At one point Arthur reaches for his jacket, thinking he’ll go out for a walk to pass the time. The green glow of the pin on his collar reminds him of Curt. He unclips it and shoves it in his pocket, suddenly resentful. 

When he gets in, it’s finally late enough to go to bed. But _sleep_ is a long time coming.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, this follows immediately after the end of part four. Second, the title, which is dropped into the last line, is a reference to a line in _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ ; the lyric “I miss you – you’re beautiful” comes from David Bowie’s song Five Years. Third, I felt iffy about the epilogue but included it anyway for the sake of clarity; I guess you can think of it as "optional".

_April, 1985_

Arthur had hoped that the next day would be better. It isn’t. It starts normally enough; he makes himself a quick breakfast, still longing to hear from Curt and knowing that it’s too early. He knows that shows run late, people go for drinks afterward, Curt is the opposite of an early riser. _Nothing wrong._ He supposes he’ll be able to distract himself at work, at least for some of the time.

But he has hardly even come into the office before he catches sight of Lou’s face, and knows right away that something _is_ wrong. The older man looks away very suddenly when he sees Arthur, without even the vague smile or greeting he would normally offer. Immediately Arthur wonders what’s happening. 

He doesn’t have to wonder for long. Lou retreats into his office then, but passes by Arthur’s door again within an hour or so. 

“Uh – Arthur?” he begins, and Arthur can tell from his tone that this is not going to be good.

“What is it?” he asks, keeping his voice low.

“Can you step into my office for a minute?”

Arthur nods. He doesn’t bother to say that it seems inefficient to walk from one office to another when they could just as easily talk here. He supposes it’s one of those things about giving, and getting, bad news. At least Lou is decent enough to be awkward about it.

Arthur follows the older man to his office _(just a few doors down, pointless, really)_ , and expects the rambling speech about falling ad revenues, and seniority, and how he’s sorry but they just can’t keep Arthur on at this time. Arthur stares out the window behind Lou’s head, only half-listening. His brain is racing with a dozen or so thoughts and feelings that are running through it, helter skelter, like the images in a dream.

Well. Maybe more of a nightmare. At any rate, he can’t help picturing Tommy Stone’s face, and that Shannon’s, and wondering if this isn’t somehow their doing. Maybe he’s just paranoid. Then again, maybe he has been tempting fate too much – raising hell, thinking he could just dump this job for a better one, all of that. Be careful what you wish for, or something.

“Arthur?”

And then it occurs to Arthur that he has been staring out at the grey April sky for too long. He drags his gaze back down to Lou’s face, aware that he must look like a complete idiot. _Not that it matters now._

He hears himself say, “I was actually planning to give my notice anyway. Soon.” 

It might sound like complete bullshit, but Arthur’s past caring. If he’s going to lose this job anyway, then he might as well get out of here as soon as he can. 

Lou, at least, looks relieved.

“Well, I’m glad to hear it – and very sorry things aren’t working out here,” he says. “But I’m sure you’ll find great opportunities elsewhere.”

_Great_ , Arthur thinks. 

Thankfully, their talk doesn’t take much longer. Arthur is still stunned when he walks back to his own office, barely looking where he’s going. 

It’s only once he’s sitting at his desk that he realizes he’s angry, too. His fingers and jaw are clenched; he actually puts his hand to his face to try to soothe his tense muscles, before glancing down at the article he had been working on in disgust. He shoves it away. _To hell with it._

Instead, Arthur begins clearing out some of his old papers, things he won’t need beyond the short term. He tosses a folder into the tin garbage pail, causing it to tip over. _Cheap piece of shit_ , he thinks. Then he kicks the trash can back up against the desk, muttering. He hopes no one is around to see him looking _this_ pathetic: nearly shaking with repressed anger, and cursing at office supplies. But this is just like him. He _would_ lie down and accept whatever bullshit the world might throw at him, or react in the most useless possible way.

Arthur leans back in his chair and sighs. He wonders if this week could possibly get any worse. 

* * *  
He’s a little calmer the next day. At least, he tells himself that he can freelance for a while before getting something better, and tries not to imagine the prospect of living in New York without a real income for any length of time. 

But it’s still far from a good day. When he stops for groceries on his way home that night, he knows that he is looking at everything he picks up with more critical eyes, more concerned about cost than he’s had to be in a while. _Not thinking about it._

Then when he gets home, and climbs the stairs to his apartment supporting the paper grocery bag against his chest, that strange feeling that something is wrong or different settles on him for the second time this week. He feels the hairs at the back of his neck prickle. The place sounds normal enough, though he can’t see the corridor from the stairwell. He continues up the stairs more quickly, but more quietly, too, more alert. For a second he hopes he might see Curt. He needs for something _good_ to happen. But he dismisses the thought almost as soon as it comes. That would be impossible; he knows Curt’s schedule much too well to even hope that.

He kicks open the door to his floor only to see a tall man waiting outside his apartment. The man turns sharply when Arthur enters the corridor. Their eyes meet. Arthur does not recognize him at all, yet something about his sly, pale face makes him wary. _Who the fuck are you?_ he thinks.

“Can I help you?” Arthur asks. Dimly, he wonders what unknown reserve of patience he is drawing on.

The stranger smiles, an unpleasant, false smile. Whoever the hell he is, Arthur wishes he would go away. But he could hazard a guess that the guy wants to talk to him, and he thinks he knows why.

“Arthur Stuart?” he asks. The smile grows broader and even more unpleasant as he says it. “Or should I say Arthur Tate?”

And Arthur definitely knows what this is about, now. A neighbour’s lost acquaintance, or a burglar or kook who wandered in off the street, would not ask for him by his pen name.

“Who the hell are you?” Arthur asks. No more patience or politeness, now.

“You can call me Eric,” the tall man says, “but that doesn’t really matter. See, what matters is that you’ve been writing some seriously damaging things about my employer.”

_Bingo_ , Arthur thinks. He had expected to hear from someone in Tommy Stone’s entourage – Shannon, maybe; she seemed pretty defensive of her charge – though he doesn’t know if this guy is here to buy him off or rough him up a bit. Arthur tries to size him up. They’re about evenly matched in height and build, but Arthur has never been in a fight in his life, unless getting kicked around as a kid counts. He tenses, his heart beating unsteadily. 

“Yeah?” he asks, with all the bravado he can muster. He draws himself up to his full height, almost without realizing it, and wishes he could put his bloody groceries down without having to turn away. “And what are you, his lawyer?”

“Nothing so formal,” Eric says, “as you know. But I can offer you a settlement, so to speak, now. Mr. Stone would rather avoid the longer, more conventional approach.”

“You know I’m not the only person writing about him,” Arthur says.

“No, but you’re – influential. And it would be much appreciated if you would stop.”

Arthur shakes his head. “I want to write things that are true. I – ”

“Not this. Retract this.”

Arthur can’t believe he’s hearing this. He shakes his head.

“No.” 

Eric takes a step forward. Arthur watches him, warily.

“Listen, you should know music journalists don’t make the big bucks. I can offer you more than that right now, if you’re smart enough to take it. And the beauty of it is, this wouldn’t have to hurt your career at all. Mr. Stone would be happy to do a real interview with you, sort of clear up misunderstandings and all that. It would look completely legit. You wouldn’t have to stop working or anything, unless you wanted the time off to enjoy a decent bit of cash.”

Then he names a sum that is maybe fifteen or twenty years’ worth of Arthur’s salary, if he’d kept his damn job. Arthur just gapes at him. He can hear the dim roar of traffic outside; for a moment, blaring car horns and the wailing siren of an ambulance from the street below are the only sounds in the hallway.

This might just be one of the most uncomfortable silences of Arthur’s life, and he’s endured some really fucking dreadful ones.

“If that’s not enough, we could do more,” Eric says, after a while. Arthur thinks, _Amateur_ – as if he has had any experience of this sort of thing himself, or wanted to.

Eric offers a hundred thousand more, if that’s _still_ not enough, the kind of money Arthur might have earned in twenty years or so – and for a split second Arthur, who has never really known success of any kind, who has no family to turn to in bad times and who’ll see no inheritance, is sorely tempted to take it.

But the moment passes. 

“Piss off,” he says. 

Maybe he’s being too much of an idealist. Maybe this is all going to come back to bite him, hard, but Arthur’s worked too hard and come too far to sell out so blatantly. He would prefer to keep his hands as clean as possible – cleaner than this, at any rate.

Now it’s Eric’s turn to gape. _Didn’t expect that_ , Arthur thinks, with some satisfaction.

“You sure you don’t want to step inside? We could discuss this further – ”

“No we can’t,” Arthur says, as decisively as he can. As if he would let a creep like this into his apartment. “You can tell Tommy Stone what I’ve told you, or not – I really don’t care. I just want you to go.” 

He doesn’t see it as any great triumph when Stone’s lackey finally leaves, but he does breathe a sigh of relief. Then he unlocks his door, sets down his groceries and collapses into a chair, wishing he had some harder drink on hand than the orange juice he has just bought. He could _really_ use it. 

* * *  
He hears from Curt that evening. Arthur hesitates before telling him anything that has happened lately, and, as a result, is surprisingly quiet, considering how much he has wanted this call. It doesn’t really matter, though. Just hearing Curt’s voice is the first decent thing to happen to Arthur in days.

“I hope you didn’t think I forgot you or anything,” Curt says, by way of apology. Arthur knows enough about touring to understand. He is happy to let Curt vent about his own issues: his son of a bitch manager won’t stop nagging him about money, apparently, and his lead guitarist nearly had to bow out in Omaha after his guitar was damaged in transit. 

Arthur doesn’t even try to get into the strange story of his own week until there’s a lull in the conversation. Even then, he decides to hold back on his run in with Stone, for now.

“I, um, had a shit week myself,” he begins, hoping he won’t sound too dull or too plebeian for Curt to care about. He supposes not; Curt listens to him politely enough.

“Shit,” Curt says, when he finishes, “that sucks. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. I’m apparently going to be freelancing for a while. Unhappily.”

“You’ll get something else, though,” Curt adds. Arthur wonders if he has ever had to worry about anything so ordinary before. 

“Thanks,” Arthur says. 

“It’s fine,” Curt adds. Arthur hears him hesitating, but says nothing himself. He hopes that Curt is, or was, about to reiterate that he is wanted and should, at least, look on the bright side and join Curt at his next gig _(Chicago, in two days)_. But the words don’t come. Arthur’s not sure why.

“I’ll try to call tomorrow,” Curt says. “I’m just traveling, no performance.”

_I know_ , Arthur thinks. He doesn’t say that, either.

“Great. Goodnight.”

“Take care of yourself.”

The phone is barely back in its cradle before Arthur wants to kick himself for letting Curt go. He really doesn’t know what else he could have said, however, and sighs. _Just too damn needy_ , he thinks, _pathetic. Really pathetic._

That mood lasts well into the next day. He trudges home in the rain from the _Herald_ for one of the last times, and dumps the junk he has taken back from his office on the floor before remembering that he has not picked up his mail in a couple days. At first he wonders whether he should even bother. But he is itching to walk around, though he’s not quite stupid enough to go outside again in this weather. He wanders back down to the dingy lobby after all. 

What he finds surprises him. He has to spend some time easing the cardboard overnight post package out of the too-small mailbox, and smiles for the first time in ages when he sees that the return address is the same hotel Curt has been staying at for the last couple days. 

Arthur looks up. The lobby’s empty enough for him to read in peace, but this is something special. He decides to delay gratification and go back to his own apartment. 

He’s glad he did. His reaction is almost too sentimental to be seen; he hears himself laugh softly, and leans against the wall as he reads. Curt may not seem like the love letter type, but that is exactly how Arthur would describe this – maybe even better, or more. Written on a small, square sheet of paper with the logo and address of Curt’s hotel in Toledo _(Sunday’s show, first stop of the tour)_ is a note reiterating just how much he would like to have Arthur with him, if Arthur could still change his mind. Beneath that is a second note, in an even sloppier hand on paper from last night’s hotel, with more of the awkward reassurances Curt had tried to offer over the phone, and a comment to the effect that he hopes he won’t seem like a complete bastard in saying that at least Arthur can come with him now. He had finished by scrawling the closing lines of an old song he knew Arthur would recognize immediately. _“I miss you - you’re beautiful.”_

Arthur rereads both letters once, then twice, then sets the papers down on his desk. He doesn’t care that he’s grinning like an idiot - doesn’t even care about his job or anything else now. He thinks that he may just have to book the first train or flight he can get out to Chicago. After all, it’s not every day that he sees this sort of proof that all his insecurities, all his suspicion and negativity, might just be all in his head. Maybe the other shoe isn’t about to drop; maybe the fault lines he keeps seeing coming between him and Curt aren’t half as serious as he has feared.

He thinks, _Days in summer are apt to linger._ Then he sits down by the phone.

_**Epilogue**  
December, 1985_

Arthur clutches his groceries closer to his chest, frowning, and hoping the snow that has started to fall won’t destroy the paper bag before he can get home. It’s become his job to pick up food for himself and Curt; Curt’s still glad just to be sober enough to eat and take care of himself, but has not yet mastered this level of normalcy. Arthur doesn’t mind.

He is, however, relieved to reach their apartment. When he enters the lobby of the building, he is shivering slightly, and his hair and collar are damp with melting snow. They say it’ll be another cold winter for New York, unusual as it is to have two of those in a row. Arthur’s glad to be out of it for now. He’s also grateful to get away from the stores blaring pathetic Christmas music, as Curt would say.

As he climbs the stairs he wonders if Curt will still be in bed where Arthur left him. That could be nice; he might just join him. 

But when Arthur gets into the apartment, he finds that Curt is up – even dressed. Curt must notice his surprise, because he grins and holds out a fresh pack of cigarettes.

“Had to buy more,” he says. “So I could have gotten the stuff after all.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Arthur says. He leans in close enough to give Curt a quick kiss before starting to put away groceries.

“You should turn on the TV,” Curt says, still hovering over Arthur. “There’s something you’ll want to see.”

“What is it?”

No answer but a knowing smile. Evidently, Curt wants to surprise him. _Fair enough_ , Arthur thinks, though he wonders what this surprise could be. Curt’s last album came out about six months before, and most of the coverage has died away by now – not _quite_ as much attention as Curt might have liked, considering the work he put into it, though it’s been selling all right and the critical reception was strong. Still, there had been some rough sailing around that time just the same.

That’s another one of Arthur’s jobs: keeping Curt sane, soothed and looking on the bright side at moments like that.

“You put it on then, and I’ll listen from here,” Arthur says. 

Curt nods and turns to go. In a moment Arthur hears the sharp click of the television being turned on. Then he freezes.

“In other entertainment news, pop singer Tommy Stone has admitted that the rumours about him are true, and that he is actually bisexual seventies rocker Brian Slade, apparently working under a changed name…”

Arthur dumps the half-emptied bag on the table and bolts into the living room.

“Mr. Stone admitted in an interview with _Time Magazine_ …”

“Wow,” Arthur says. Then he thinks _I’m not good enough, of course; where I write’s not good enough. Even when he does the right thing he has to be a spiteful bastard about it._

He shakes his head, wondering at his own vehemence.

“Oh well,” he mutters.

Curt raises an eyebrow. “‘Oh, well’? That’s it?”

“Sorry,” Arthur says, turning to him. “I was just thinking aloud.” Then it occurs to him. “Doesn’t this bother you at all?”

A year ago, Arthur would never have dared to ask about Curt’s past so bluntly. Even six months ago he would have hesitated. But they’ve spent a lot of time together since then, and Arthur is past hesitating now.

Curt shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “I’m over all that. I’m doing okay, and I’ve got someone new in my life.”

He snakes his arm around Arthur’s waist, trying to pull him closer. Arthur obliges.

“Oh, yeah?” he teases.

“Yeah,” Curt says. “Young guy, really hot. Writes for a small arts and music magazine. Bit of a shit disturber in his way, too.” 

Arthur laughs. The TV prattles on about Mr. Stone – er – Slade, as the bemused host says. Curt and Arthur lock eyes, too fixed on one another to really pay attention.


End file.
